Red on white
by renrenren3
Summary: Harvey and Mike are working late, they're both tired, and maybe that's why they're both showing too much.


It's past eleven on a Wednesday evening and Mike is still at the office, forced to work way late because Harvey is a tyrant and also a workaholic. Mike's only consolation is that this case is too important for Harvey to go home and leave everything to him, so at least he's got some company. They've both been holed in Harvey's office all day, poring over heavy law books and looking for a loophole that would allow the client to avoid paying several million dollars in fines.

(The client is a jerkass CEO who deserves to pay every single cent and maybe some more. But Harvey has already lectured Mike about how they don't get to pick their clients and about how sometimes lawyers have to defend criminals sometimes, which sucks, but Mike doesn't want to hear more on the subject so he keeps his mouth shut.)

Mike turns another page and his vision blurs when he sees all the tiny legalese print. He rubs his eyes, stretches his arms and legs and then loosens his tie. From behind his desk, Harvey lifts his eyes and stares at him.

"What?" Mike asks, expecting some criticism about his unkempt appearance (loose tie, wrinkled shirt, jacket tossed on the back of the armchair, hair sticking out on his head from all the time he's run his fingers through it in concentration) but for once even Harvey is too tired to make sarcastic remarks.

"I'm hungry," Harvey says, leaning back in his chair. The gesture is Harvey's equivalent of stretching, because he'd never do anything as classless as stretching in the office, not even when there isn't a soul around.

"Well, I'm not edible," Mike replies. It's really a stupid answer, he realizes that as soon as the words have left his mouth, but he's hungry too and he's so very tired, and Harvey's stare is almost too intense.

Harvey gives him a look, one of the those he uses when Mike says something that he deems both stupid and amusing, which is almost every time that Mike opens his mouth. "You're too skinny and stringy," he says. "Go get me something from that all-night sushi bar Rachel was talking about."

"No way," Mike says. That sushi bar is three blocks away and he can barely muster the strength to flip the pages of his book. "Just call someone and have a pizza delivered."

Harvey's face expresses only contempt for food so plebeian as takeaway pizza. "I'd rather eat you," he says.

"Go ahead," Mike says, and goes back to reading his exceedingly boring tome. After a few minutes he stretches again, because the armchair might be stylish and modern and signed by a famous designer but it's also uncomfortable to sit in for hours at a time. And, again, he catches Harvey staring at him. "I'm still not going to get you sushi," Mike starts, but Harvey is no longer interested in raw fish.

"What's that?" Harvey asks, pointing with his pen.

Mike follows harvey's line of sight and lowers his eyes towards his own stomach, noticing that the hem of his shirt rode up and there's a few inches of skin showing. "Er," he says. "That's a long story."

It's not a long story, not really. Several years ago, before he thought of using his memory to cheat on tests, he'd fallen in with some bad guys. When he'd tried to get away from them, one pulled a knife on him. There had been blood, lots of blod, and Trevor jumping in to defend him, and then an ambulance racing to the hospital.

He doesn't remember the pain as much as the feeling of helplessness as he was laying on the pavement waiting for the paramedics, pressing his hands against the wound in a futile attempt at stopping the blood, while the red seeped through his clothes and over his bag and books.

He also remembers all the nightmares that he had in the hospital and in the following weeks, when he dreamed that Trevor hadn't been with him, that there wasn't anyone protecting him, and he died a thousand deaths in a back alley behind some garbage bins with nobody who cared while his blood and his guts and his life slipped away between his fingers.

Since he and Trevor stopped being friends, sometimes the nightmares come back. He can still see the blood (thanks for nothing eidetic memory) spreading in a red stain over the white page in front of him. Mike bows his head and tries to concentrate on the words in front of him, on the book, on anything but the thin red line on his skin that won't go away even after all those years.

He's trying to look nonchalant, but Harvey is too good at reading people to be fooled. Instead of calling his bluff, though, Harvey gets up and makes his way around the desk and the table, stopping in front of Mike, leaning down and brushing the tip of his fingers around the skin.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to. I didn't mean to bring up unpleasant memories."

Mike shakes his head. "It's okay," he says. "It happened a long time ago."

Harvey's face is unreadable, but maybe today he's tired because he lets the mask slip and there's a flicker in his eyes. And Mike gets the impression that if someone tried to stab him now, Harvey would step in, and the thought alone is comforting. Maybe the nightmares will go away soon.


End file.
